You Still Can

 

A peach pink line cuts through the sky at dusk,

a plane coming in for a sunset landing, so many

humans having been somewhere else. If I were not

already here, I’d want to be home.

 

I don’t travel anymore. I make excuses:

the cost, my dog, flying, inconvenience, discomfort.

It’s gotten embarrassing, like the clatter

of empty bottles, their skinny necks, residual fumes.

 

I awake with a spider-legged dread.

I belong in a story they won’t let me forget.

Another gathering of Jews bullet-sprayed.

Ancestral warnings. Shocked not surprised.

 

Hiding is one way to survive but no way

to live. I stay home, sweep crumbs, feed

the dog, pay bills. I fold sheets, make toast.

A plane? You mean you can go anywhere?